It was broken, accidentally, I was told. Frederic is nine, so the act of entertaining himself comes easily to him. Much easier than it does for adults. He still enjoys his imagination. He is still able to live in a fantasy world, where employment, shelter, food, bills are all a thing in his future. Rightfully so.
On this occasion, the entertainment came in the form of throwing a pillow in the air. Or maybe it was a couch cushion. I can't remember, and that part of the story really doesn't matter. I do know that it was either instrument that brought not only momentary joy, but instant fear. At some point, the pillow/cushion came down from the toss, and hit a trinket on our entertainment unit, knocking it down with a crash.
The item was something Frederic wanted and received after my father died. When his three surviving sons were charged with the task of cleaning out his home, I really had no interest in keeping much of anything. To me, the possessions were simply that: stuff. They didn't signify the essence of my father. They were things he collected over the years. Material items that he himself didn't have the heart to get rid of, whether via a gift to his family or to a favorite charity (and he had many...trust me...I still get requests for monetary donations from several of them). I wanted a couple of things, don't get me wrong. Like the inexpensive Swiss Army Swatch watch I found. Like a painting he had hanging in his living room that is now in mine. Like a couple of t-shirts he used to wear. But for the most part, what he accumulated was mostly junk (minus the nice tools and some furniture he had, but I'm not a handy guy like my brother, Darrell, is, and I didn't need any new old furniture).
By the time Frederic is my age, his memories of his grandfather will be faded. I know this because I, too, lost my grandfather when I was seven. I have maybe a half dozen things I remember about my grandfather. I wish there were more.
When he asked if he could have the "golf ball thingy-game" my dad once owned, I didn't think twice. My brothers agreed too. This request was possibly Frederic's way of holding on to the memory of his grandfather in the only way a seven year old knew how. I don't even remember my father ever showing us the promotional item he got from his car dealer. But maybe, I assumed, Frederic did.
It's hard to describe, but the object of Fredric's affection was this skill-type contraption that was kind of like a snow globe. Inside of the item was a golf ball and tee. It was filled with some type of fluid; compass juice or something. The goal was to carefully shake the globe to get the golf ball to rest on top of the tee. Not an easy feat, but Frederic did do it the day he requested the item. A major accomplishment for a child.
He was excited that he was able to take the item home. When it arrived, it got some attention occasionally from curious guests. But for the most part, it wound up, like most trinkets are, moving from spot to spot whenever it was dusted.
Last night, the item met its demise in the whole pillow/cushion incident. It crashed onto the floor and broke. Frederic was devastated, I was told. What bothered me the most was that he was afraid to tell me. Afraid I was going to get mad at him. Afraid, maybe, that I would blame him for ruining something of my father's. Afraid he would get punished. Afraid to tell me.
Growing up, I kept secrets from my father. I think the most damaging one was when I did steroids for two years. He gave me plenty of opportunities to "come clean" but I continued to lie to his face. Like Frederic, I was also afraid. Afraid of being honest and accepting the consequences.
But this is different. When I heard Frederic didn't want to tell me what happened, I became concerned. Was it wrong for him to be careless; freely tossing around a pillow/cushion in our family room? Sure. Ultimately, however, the item may have meant more to him than it did to me. The item, on my shelf or broken and in the garbage, will not bring my father back. I've been trying to instill a sense of honesty in my children that one-ups me. I'd rather they tell me the truth than lie to my face. I'd rather they realize that stuff--most often than not--is just stuff, not the essence of a human being. If something of value is kept out in the open for a child to accidentally break it--in my opinion--it's my fault as much as it is his.
I reiterated that today. We had a conversation about the incident. We talked about being more careful. I explained my theory on possessions.
I didn't see his face in the end, but I heard his sigh of relief.
He was no longer afraid.
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